


Fly Me To The Moon ...

by JamieAvenBell



Series: Ineffable Songbook [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale might influenced Sinatra, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Matchmaker Bentley, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Singing, Slow Burn, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:18:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamieAvenBell/pseuds/JamieAvenBell
Summary: Crowley catches Aziraphale singing and finally gets a 6000 years old message of longing. Just self-indulgent fluff.





	Fly Me To The Moon ...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siberianchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/gifts), [SonyB89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonyB89/gifts).



> Well, Good Omens. Wasn’t a big surprise that I hopped on the ineffable train, was it? And since SonyB89 and siberianchan are really enjoying her angsty fics, my poor heart strikes back with a songfic. Utterly romantic and fluffy. Because in my headcanon Aziraphale likes Sinatra and jazz and swing and those old ballads … and well. Enjoy. ;)
> 
> If you like, listen to this beautiful cover: [Fly Me To The Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IixaVTA-x8g)

On a rainy London day Crowley offers his angel a ride home after a fine dinner at one of those superb restaurants Aziraphale locates overall in the city. Although he just took the bite his angel offered him to taste, the cake looked delicious as hell and the coffee was damn fine. No one bothered to miracle an umbrella afterward, so they’ve decided to drive back to the bookstore instead of taking a stroll.

Crowley doesn’t mind. The days are getting colder and like every serpent, he just wishes to coil up in a warm, cozy place. As close as possible to Aziraphale. His angel seems pleased, delighted, one might say, and that’s why Crowley once behaves while driving. He even decides for an almost reasonable pace, a never-ending stop-and-go on London’s cramped streets.

Their conversation dulls, but the constant swish of the windshield wipers irks him. Music. Some music should be just fine. With a flip of his finger, he starts one of his CDs. Considering the endless repertoire of Queen songs there should be something to fit the mood.

“ _Fly me to the moon …,_ ” Frank Sinatra suddenly sings. “ _and let me play among the stars …_ ”

“Well, that’s new,” Crowley comments. He knows that the Bentley likes to meddle and to voice all the feelings his owner swallowed up for six thousand years. But until now he only borrowed Freddie’s voice to communicate.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale clutches the seat belt much harder than he needs to. Unknown to Crowley, a thousand thoughts and fears and doubts are racing through his mind, a thousand ones a minute. Face blanched, eyes blown wide, he stumbles for the right words, for an excuse. At the next red light, he takes his chance for a frantic leave. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, I’ve absolutely forgotten to … forgotten something that I needed to do. Yeah, forgotten it, so well, uhm … I’m afraid we have to postpone our evening activities and …” He jumps out of the car, not a glance back to Crowley. “I’ve got to go!”

“But it’s rai---” His angel has already fled and speeds down the sidewalk.  


* * *

“Smooth. Really smooth,” Aziraphale scolds himself as he’s entered the bookshop. He is drenched, still, it was the only way. He will never explain to Crowley that the Bentley suddenly reacted to his very own moods. Why did that bloody car, that hellish vehicle, do that at all? And more importantly, he will never reveal the reason why that particular song started to play.

Changing clothes and setting up a nice cup of tea Aziraphale continues to contemplate his misery. Although books will always be his favorites, he has a soft spot for music, too. Nice music, not that confusing, loud screaming Crowley likes to listen to. Or that irritating be-bop stuff.

Coincidentally, Aziraphale met Frank Sinatra and was tasked to influence him. Golden voice or not, Heaven was a bit concerned about his mafia activities. With a sigh, Aziraphale digs through a pile of books that hide his record collection and wonders where he has last seen his player. He remembers pretty clearly his failure, there was no way to prevent Frank’s darker side. He also remembers the nice evenings and talks they shared. Maybe Aziraphale has told him a thing or two in his drunken stupor, back in the 1960ies. As well as he had told a certain songwriter a few years prior. But well, the rescue of his books and Crowley dancing over consecrated ground was still a fresh memory and … somehow his well-guarded secret was written into a very popular set of lyrics and performed by numerous artists. Still counting, thanks to that silly thing called world wide web.

Carefully, Aziraphale pulls out the signed case of _Fly Me To The Moon_ and places the vinyl on his player.

Aziraphale drowns in the lyrics, hums the tune as he locks the bookshop and settles with a cup of tea in his favorite armchair. Preventing the apocalypse was the only course of action, he would never state anything else. Still, deep down, he wonders. Wonders what could have happened. What could have happened if he said yes? Agreed to run away to Alpha Centauri or even further. He was never a selfish person, but he longed for the possibility. To fly to the stars with his favorite demon, just the two of them.

“ _Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars_ ”, Sinatra’s velvety voice continues where the Bentley left off. “ _In other words, hold my hand. In other words, baby, kiss me_.”

Oh, he had inquired discreetly a thing or two about the Fallen, subtly trying to find out if they were still capable of feeling love and love in return. No records, not even a footnote that helped him. Probably, the other angels were never very interested in the subject …

All that was left are books and plays and paintings and songs that reflect the emotion Aziraphale never dared to express. At the time it is the one emotion he likes to talk about the most. In hindsight, it was ridiculous how often he complained about missing Crowley, about the fear to act against the rules, about the dire acceptance to cherish and treasure a love that will stay unrequited. 

Aziraphale firmly shakes his head and takes another sip of his tea. They’ve stopped the apocalypse, they were free from Up and Below, they had each other’s company – this was surely enough.

* * *

Time continues in its usual pattern, they enjoy themselves, drink wine, go out eating, talk over everything and nothing at all, still, Aziraphale avoids the Bentley like the plague. Which isn’t a very hard task. Autumn is stretching into winter, humans dress in way more layers and even Crowley is slowing down a bit, too. The most distinct change is, that he is glued to Aziraphale’s side. He doesn’t mind, he never minds spending time with Crowley, but this year, the first winter after Armageddon’t, Crowley prefers to stay a great deal of the day in his snake form. He coils up in the small, warm kitchen, lingers in a steaming tub that miraculously filled itself, sleeps on a cushion near the heater while customers fail to buy some of the very special editions. Sometimes, Aziraphale isn’t sure whether Crowley is still slithering through the shop or already left for his own flat.

In one of those moments when Aziraphale mindlessly dusts the shelves or re-arranges the books just for the joy of confusing costumers, he has simply forgotten that Crowley is staying nearby. As a matter of fact, he is so used to his presence, it fills the gaps in his everyday life without much effort. 

A certain song, stuck for weeks within his mind, slips over his lips and he starts to hum, soft words form an even softer tune. “ _Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more._ ” Unlike Sinatra’s original version, his voice is trembling with longing, a fragile thread of hope lingering in every syllable. Centuries of what-ifs woven into a love so deep but unattainable it’s a miracle itself that Crowley never noticed the little tell-tale signs in his behavior. Or maybe never understood. “ _You are all I long for, all I worship and adore._ ”

* * *

Crowley, back in human form, watches his favorite angel sing. Most of Heaven was more than able to perform an otherworldly, very holy tune. But Aziraphale is different, always was and always will. After six thousand years, this is the first time he caught him singing. He was a connoisseur of fine arts, books, paintings, theatre plays, classical concerts, … After all those words he had absorbed through reading an infinite amount of books Crowley always wondered why his angel has a hard time expressing himself. Of course, heaven forbid, but Aziraphale never let on if he was interested in those relationships the fine arts depicted. Especially concerning love in the very human way.

But by borrowing Sinatra’s words, coloring them in sadness, a whole new set of emotion is shining through Aziraphale’s ever so strict attire. The song ends, but his angel just starts anew, words full of longing. It’s a love song, Crowley knows for sure, but in his angel’s voice, the lyrics sound desperate, almost broken. As if he never …

Suddenly, the missing puzzle piece clicks into its place.

“ _In other words, please be true …,_ ” Aziraphale chokes on the last note as Crowley gently removes the duster and sets it on one of the shelves. With big, uncertain eyes his angel watches his every move, muscles tense, he utterly fears Crowley’s reaction. Crowley slinks, like the snake he used to be, into Aziraphale’s proximity. Almost touching, just a breath between them, he cradles his angels face with utmost care.  
“ _Oh, in other words_ ,” Crowley continues to sing and presses a lingering kiss on his angel’s lips. “ _I love you_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love. :)


End file.
